


Sebastian Moran and the Case of the Dickhead Detective

by itsnotlove



Category: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles - Kim Newman, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Murder, Pettiness, Stupid boys with their stupid plots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:05:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsnotlove/pseuds/itsnotlove
Summary: Moran is annoyed, Jim is petty, Sherlock is an enabler of petty behaviour, and Watson should (in Moran's opinion) be doing a better job of keeping Sherlock in check. Regardless, Moran doesn't get paid to think, he's paid to do, and that's quite all right with him.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pixietails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixietails/gifts).



> Happy birthday Kay! I pinched a few of your hc's for this, so I hope you enjoy!

**COLONEL SEBASTIAN MORAN**  was not a man above taking orders. Popular opinion (which could be found in the testimony of former comrades, other officers, and perhaps hundreds of natives in other countries who had witnessed many a good time) often indicated otherwise, but he was, at his heart, a soldier.

    Not a mercenary who found his leash doubling for a purse string or a gladiator in search of glory. A soldier, and one who took orders without question, without emotion, and without hesitance. Loyalty had nothing to do with it, and it wasn’t a word he’d use to describe why he followed Jim Moriarty’s orders. Fear did not apply either, nor common sense.

    Instinct, perhaps. The instinct to follow the larger shark as it travelled in lazy circles through the murky water. London was more a swamp than anything, so it only made sense to have something dangerous lurking in its waters, waiting to chew on tourists and natives alike just for the fun of it.

    Perhaps an alligator or a crocodile then, since it was a swamp. Some creature that could blend into the disgusting backdrop because it even more disgusting itself.

    No, if Moriarty were a beast then Moran would surely want to test his luck; see if he could have him mounted and stuffed by the end of the evening.

    In a different way than usual, at least.

    “You’re thinking.” Moriarty said from his chair, which seemed more suited for a throne room than an office. He’d been reading (or possibly writing; Moran didn’t really care to notice) and ignoring Moran’s pacing. “It’s loud.”

    Moran grunted. Sometimes it was better to let Moriarty reply for you in his head. It cut down the work, in any case.

    “Well?”

    Moran stopped moving and looked at Moriarty from the corner of his eye. “Quite, thanks.”

    Moriarty raised his eyebrows, apparently amused with the answer, but looked expectant all the same. Moran considered honesty—Moriarty probably had a creature picked out for himself already—but he wasn’t sure it was worth the risk.

    “I’ve noticed you’ve taken up mining for a hobby.” Moriarty said after a moment. “Were you considering the differences in your collection of rubble?”

    “You’ve seen the rocks.” Not a question, because of course he had, but that didn't mean Moran had to admit it either way.

    “I’ve been reliably informed you’ve broken Mrs. Halifax’s washer.” Moriarty said. He’d stopped what he was doing entirely now and focused his attention on Moran. “You can’t throw rocks at Sherlock Holmes.”

    It was bad enough Moran couldn’t shoot him, but to take this away? It was barbaric. Uncivilised. He wanted to make a complaint to a higher power.

    “A rock collection is all it is.” Moran said. It was reasonable, if nearly acceptable. "I don't store them in my pockets."

    “Care to empty your pockets?” Moriarty smiled.

    “What sort of animal you are.” Moran said, hoping Moriarty would show something that could be mistaken for pity and let the subject drop. “Shark, alligator. Can’t decide.”

    It wasn’t often Moriarty showed he was surprised, but this time he did. His slip of expression disappeared in an instant, and was quickly replaced with  _ that look  _ he got whenever he talked about the dickhead with the magnifying glass. 

    “A spider.” 

    Moran fought the urge to roll his eyes. A teenage girl he was not, but a frustrated and fed up soldier instead. It was rare for Moriarty to become fixated on anything for long, but when he did, he didn’t hold back. This bloody detective had held his attention for too long, and only made the situation worse by the apparently  _ mutual  _ obsession.

    It was all a bit sickening.

    A slide of timber against carpet announced Moriarty had decided to stand and make some sort of point, so Moran turned fully in order to witness it. Despite the vastness of the city behind him, the incredible size of the grandiose chair likely thieved from the palace, and his rather small stature; Moriarty managed to look close to nine feet tall.

    “Oh, don't be so upset.” Moriarty said as he shrugged on his suit jacket—that did not bode well for whoever he’d been reading about. “Come along now; it’s time to check the webs.”


	2. II

**THE WEBS WERE**  located at the docks on the Isle of Dogs. No doubt it had been a tourist who had chosen the location and requested Moriarty’s immediate assistance with a spot of trouble they’d found themselves in. There was no way a local would have asked to meet and discuss crime outside of the Hilton, after all.

    It was barely three degrees out but Moran had opted to forgo a scarf. Unlike many men with his skills, this had less to do with achieving an intimidating aura (he didn’t need any help with that), but more to do with maneuverability. That, and the fact his favourite scarf (and the only one readily available) just happened to navy, and he refused to encourage any comparisons Moriarty might make if he were feeling particularly bored.

    They arrived precisely on time—which must have meant the client wasn’t very important—and stood beside the flowerbeds directly across from the hotel. It was an odd meeting place; Moriarty did so love meeting in the dead of night in ramshackle buildings, or at noon in hotel rooms normally reserved for royalty—but it wasn’t Moran’s place to think on that. It wasn’t his business whether they met in the middle of the Yard to discuss a good old fashioned hit, so long as he took care of anyone he was supposed to.

    The client jogged from the hotel not a minute later only to stop a metre or so from the doors. He spun in circles as he searched for Moriarty, his thick polar jacket making him look more like the mascot for a tyre company than a someone with enough money to get Moriarty’s attention, then nearly tripped over his feet once he spotted them. He walked carefully across the narrow street until he was nearly pressed up against Moriarty, looking down his thin, long nose at him as he caught his breath.

    “Jimbo,” he said in a thick American accent. Moran cleared his throat. “Paul Delaney, good to meet you. Jack Quartz said to say hello.”

    Moriarty took a half step backward at the mention of Jack Quartz’s name as Moran fought to keep his expression neutral.

    “So good of Jacky to recommend me to you.” He said, and Moran took a deep breath to steady himself. “Mr. Delaney—”

    “Paul’s fine.”

    “Paul,” Moriarty said pleasantly, as if he weren't already wishing death upon him, “could you expand on the nature of your… situation? We haven't much time I'm afraid.”

    “Oh, yeah, yeah it’s, uh...” Delaney looked around in such an exaggerated way, Moran was concerned his head might pop clean off and roll into oncoming foot traffic. That image along with Moriarty being called  _ Jimbo  _ made for a brilliant start to the job. “It isn’t good to talk here. Too public, isn’t it? This is, that is to say, it’s  _ very private business. _ ”

    Delaney winked and Moran was forced to clear his throat loudly. Such things really were a perfect show of Moriarty’s self control.

    “Of course.” Moriarty said. “Shall we go inside to your suite?”

     “Oh I’m not staying  _ here. _ ” Delaney said with more distaste than totally necessary as he turned and looked at the building. His head moved up and to the left and, _damn it all_ , Moran  _ deduced  _ he was looking at his room. A room he didn’t want Moriarty to know about, no less. “What about the, uh, do you have Starbucks over here? They're usually good places to stay _anonymous._ ”

    “I'm sure we can locate something along those lines.” Moriarty said with a terrifying and professional smile as slowly rolled his head to face Moran. Moran, who was trained to endure advanced interrogation no matter how great the physical and mental anguish, and who definitely wasn't fighting a losing battle to keep his expression neutral. “You're a connoisseur of such places, Sebastian—”  _ Oh,  _ Moran thought as the corner of his mouth—traitorous bastard it was—ignored Moran's internal protestations and better judgement and cracked upward,  _ I'm in trouble. _ “—so please lead the way.”

    "'Course." Moran said as he stuck out two fingers to signal the driver to collect them. "I know just the place."


	3. III

**THE CAFE MORAN** had chosen as a meeting place just so happened to be a fifty or so minute drive from the old docks, in a place certain to improve Moriarty’s mood. As much as Moran enjoyed a petulant and annoyed Moriarty; such a mood made him far less patient with those in the immediate area and, on occasion, meant he’d permit Moran to have just a bit more fun. But that such a mood when directed at Moran it was sure to have the opposite effect.

   There’d already been instances in the past where some of Moran’s favourite toys had been taken away, and the memorable occasion he’d been placed in a timeout (something Moran loathed to remember, given how very smug Moriarty had been when a certain wanker had cornered him and he’d not been allowed to do anything about it), so it wasn’t worth risking any further punishment.

   In any case, the Starbucks in question was only a brisk two minutes walk away from one of Moriarty’s favourite locations in Marylebone, and one sure to draw attention should they wish for it. Of course, Moran  _ did not  _ wish for the attention now his plan with the rocks had been found out. Still, Moriarty hadn’t instructed him not to toss plastic spoons about as though they were daggers, so maybe he’d be able to find a loophole should a certain dickhead turn up uninvited.

   “Not as good, is it?” Delaney griped as he sipped his mocha-cappu-latte or whatever it was. Moran had opted for water whilst Moriarty had ordered the most ridiculous mixture of syrups, though neither had so much as sniffed their drinks. “I guess you focus all your talent on tea.”

   “Yes, unfortunate though it is, we’ve been unable to enforce equal time for teaching the art of coffee making in our schools.” Moriarty said. “It has been quite the debate, but the traditionalists win out.”

   Delaney frowned, unable to discern whether Moriarty was being serious, then gave up with a shrug. “Too bad. You don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

   “Unfortunately.” Moriarty said. “It appears that’s not all I’m missing out on.”

   “What’s else?” Delaney said, then almost choked on his next sip once he realised. “Why I’ve asked to meet?”

   The door chimed as someone rather tall entered the cafe. An ugly woman, far too tall and with a hunchback, greying auburn hair falling around her shoulders. Her cane tapped and scraped at the floor in patterns, and Moran fought the urge to visit the condiment station in search of spoons.

_ Scrape, tap, scrape, tap. Tap, scrape. Tap, tap, scrape. Scrape, scrape, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Scrape. Tap, scrape. Tap, scrape, tap, tap. Tap, scrape, tap. Tap. Tap, scrape. Scrape, tap, tap. Scrape, tap, scrape, scrape. Tap, tap, scrape, scrape, tap, tap _

   “Yes indeed.” Moriarty said, sounding a great deal more chipper. “I’d like to hear it in your own words, if you don’t mind.”

   “Well, first things then, you should know it wasn’t my fault.” Delaney said, which meant whatever had happened was definitely his fault. “I was minding my business, just going for a drive, but you folk drive on the wrong side.”

   Moriarty nodded as the hag near the counter dropped her bag. 

   Moran gripped the table.

   “And this guy, he just, out of nowhere, he jumps behind me—” Delaney leaned to one side of the table as if to demonstrate. “—and I back over him. He made a mess of the trunk; I’m not sure the rental company is going to pay for it.”

   “No, I don’t imagine they will.” Moriarty said. He leaned slightly into the table, tilted his head, and gave Delaney a conspiratorial smile. “Did he fall out?”

   “What?” Delaney said as he pushed his chair back. His face had drained of colour.

   “Of your…  _ trunk. _ ” Moriarty said. “Cars these days have emergency releases in them, so one can escape if they find themselves trapped.”

   “Oh, oh right...”

   “Now, let’s assume Mr. Davies was prone to sleepwalking and found himself trapped,” Moriarty continued, making no attempt to pretend he believed the story at all, “and he sprung up out of it when you were driving. You’d be afraid and back over him by accident.”

   Delaney nodded.

   “Alternatively,” Moriarty said as he leaned back in his chair, “this was murder.”

   “No!” Delaney said. “No I’m no murderer, I wouldn’t! I don’t have it in me!”

   Moran snorted but kept his eyes fixed on the hag near the counter. She was so very close to the condiment station, which meant she was within spoon throwing distance.

   “Terrible business, murder. So many try their hand, but so few are any good at it.” Moriarty sighed a if it were the most taxing thing in the world, and perhaps to him it was. “I suppose you put him in the trunk even though he’d escaped once already. Didn’t check for a pulse but gave him a good few do overs with the car.”

   Delaney’s eyes flit back and forth between Moran and Moriarty.

   “Then you asked Jack for help, and he directed you to me.” Moriarty said. “So you’ll be wanting assistance with all of that, I suppose.”

   For a moment, it looked as though Delaney might actually scream. But the moment passed and, after several thick swallows, he nodded. 

   Pleased enough, Moriarty reached into his pocket and—in what must have been the most obvious and dramatic way imaginable—thumped a business card onto the table and slid it over.

   The hag had gone eerily silent moments before, and ignored her name—Viola, which probably had some sort of annoying meaning behind it because Moriarty smiled dangerously when he heard it—when it was called. 

   “My costs, which are non-negotiable. Please keep them to yourself.” Moriarty said as Delaney inspected the card. It was a good thing he’d chosen to sit, because he almost tumbled out of his chair. “This meeting is included in the fee. You can deposit half of the fee to the account listed—bitcoin or other crypto currencies are accepted, though there is an additional fee for those. The market is just so unstable, isn’t it?”

   Again, Delaney nodded. He seemed to be taking particular interest in Moran, who was in turn scowling at the hag.

   A hag who was inspecting spoons.

   Like she  _ knew _ .

   “Do we have a deal?” Moriarty asked.

   “You’ll take care of it? All of it?” Delaney asked, and Moriarty smiled back at him. “Then yeah. Yeah, we have a deal.”

_ Scrape, scrape, tap. Tap, scrape. Scrape, scrape, tap. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Scrape, tap. _

__ “Yes, it is.” Moriarty said for seemingly no reason. Only, there was of course a reason and Moran had caught just enough to know exactly what it was. He flew out of his chair and to his feet, prepared to vault the table and beat the hag to death (or at least disfigurement) with a salt shaker if he had to, when Moriarty held up a hand. Unfortunately, Moran knew enough to stop what he was doing and stand in place.

   “If you’re done,  _ Paul,  _ we’ll be needing the location of the car.” He slipped a pen and a fresh business card out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “Just write it down here, there’s a good lad, and we’ll be on our way.”

   The hag collected her coffee from the exasperated barista and hobbled out of the cafe as Delaney scrawled down the address. When he was done, Moriarty and Moran bid him good day and left immediately. Whatever Moriarty had planned, Moran hoped it would relieve some of his frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering about the Morse Code fuckery: "Caught already?" "Game on."
> 
> Also, in Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night', Viola has a twin brother named Sebastian. Viola also disguises herself as a man...
> 
> :)


	4. IV

**AS IT HAPPENED,** Moran had been wrong about the effect of Moriarty’s plans—for now, at least.

   Upon leaving the coffee shop, Moriarty had halted in the middle of the street and stared up at a second-storey window on the other side of the road. He’d paused for long enough for Moran to wonder if it was some sort of trick to unnerve the client, but the malevolently playful twist of lips a few moments later begged to differ.

   “What?” Moran had asked as politely as one could when desperate to throw rocks at buildings.

   “Moran.” Moriarty said, then turned to face him. “Go fetch.”

   The order had been just vague enough that Moran was tempted to misinterpret it completely and storm the building on the other side of the road. His rocks were in his pocket at the ready, and even if they weren’t, Moran would settle for slipping off a boot to thwack the oversized, big-nosed wanker if he had to. Sadly, that particular thought was struck down a second after it had been born as Moriarty raised his eyebrows just enough to remind Moran of just who might be shipped to where if orders weren’t followed correctly. 

   And so, Moran fetched.

   Despite being parked half a block from the nearest tree, Paul had attempted to camouflage his vehicle with several large leaves. He’d placed them in an orderly sort of fashion atop the windshield, which drew more attention to the car than it might have otherwise.

   The client had not handed over the keys to the car, and Moriarty hadn’t asked for them. This, Moran guessed, was either because Moriarty had assumed Moran wouldn’t need them, or because he wanted the client to realise Moran hadn't needed them at a later time. As it was likely the second option, Moran wondered if he could get away with breaking the passenger window just to prove a point. If nothing else, it might relieve some of his growing frustration.

   Unfortunately, before he could convince himself the consequences would be worth the short lived victory, Moran tried the door handle and found the vehicle to be unlocked. Any other time, Moran might have worried over how convenient such a thing was—such things rarely occurred, and it wasn’t as though there weren’t people who wished to lure him into a false sense of security only to murder him—but pushed the thought aside. The client— _ Paul _ —had not appeared to be capable of very much (not even something as simple as murder, given how many times he’d tried and failed to kill the bastard in the trunk), and had probably left the car unlocked in a fit of panic.

   It did not take much to start the engine (though it did make Moran long for days past, when hot-wiring a car was much more aesthetically pleasing), and within minutes he had pulled away from the curb.

   The drive wasn’t a long one—there were rocks all over London one could crawl under—but it was irritating. Moran’s imagination constantly waged war with his memories and begged him to consider all the could-have-beens. Images of a better history—one with Shercock-Fucking-Gnomenose sprawled out on the ground, his limbs bent at unnatural angles as he whimpered for mercy—both excited and annoyed him.

   Compared to Moriarty, Shercuck was nothing more than a stray house cat. He wasn’t worth the Moran’s time or planning—Hell, he wasn’t worth the bullet Moran had set aside for him. Yet, he wanted nothing more than to put the bastard down like the dog he was.

   Because he was  _ annoying _ , and deductions were  _ stupid _ .

   Thankfully, Moran was pulled from his lustful rage before he could convince himself to go rogue as he’d made it to his destination. He pulled into the rundown factory and parked in the centre of it simply because he could. The factory looked empty enough—it had been gutted some years ago following a fire no one knew anything about—but Moran knew better than to fall for appearances.

   He exited the vehicle and leaned against it. Less than a minute later, footsteps echoed from somewhere behind him, and he turned in time to see Moriarty start up a cordless electric bone saw.

   There really was an appliance for every occasion.

   “Moran.” Moriarty said as he waved the apparatus about his head carelessly. 

   “Bit loud.” Moran replied, because even if Moriarty lopped his own head off, three more would grow in its place.

   Moriarty heaved a sigh and turned off the saw. Obviously, he’d been wanting a different reaction.

   “Have you inspected the luggage?” Moriarty asked.

   Moran shook his head and leaned into the driver’s seat to pop the trunk. “Thought you’d want a look first.”

   “How thoughtful.” Moriarty said. He approached the rear of the vehicle and gave Moran a pointed look.

   “Allow me.” Moran deadpanned as he stepped toward the trunk. Rather than open it like a regular person, he took advantage of his long legs (the longest in the room, in fact) and kicked at it in what he felt was a rather graceful way. Unfortunately, the still-not-dead cargo did not agree with Moran’s assessment of his own abilities, and made a noise that fell somewhere between a scream and a gurgle.

   “Heavens to Betsy.” Moriarty said as the man in the trunk tried and failed to wriggle out. “Mr. Delaney really  _ isn’t  _ capable of murder after all.”

   The man in the trunk blew a bloody bubble of protest, and Moran found himself agreeing. He always hated it when Moriarty tried out new cutesy phrases.

   “This will cost extra.” Moriarty said as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialled the client’s number and held his phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fiddled with the bone saw. “On my signal, be as loud as you can.”

   Moran nodded.

   “And ensure it  _ is  _ finished when it's time.” Moriarty added. “Either Mr. Delaney is inept, or Mr. Johnston here is immortal.”

   Moran snorted as he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of rocks. While they  _ had  _ been reserved for someone special, Moran supposed he could count this as practice.

   “Ah,  _ Paul— _ no, no, not yet—” Moriarty rolled his eyes and wobbled his head as if to urge Paul to shut up. “No, we’ve run into an issue. You see, you haven’t been terribly honest—oh, no I  _ do  _ believe you haven’t killed anyone.”

   Moran took that as a cue to punch the man’s already broken knee as hard as he could. The rocks in his hand strengthened his fist (not that he needed the help), and the man cried out long and loud.

   “Now, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, could you take the card I gave you out of your pocket—yes, very good—now, I need you to call upon every math lesson you’ve ever had and double that number.” Moriarty smiled. “Oh, don’t be  _ silly!  _ Of course you don’t have to; we’ll accept the advance you’ve sent us already for services rendered, and take this man to the closest hospital as a bonus—”

   Moran struck the man’s ribs and earned himself another loud cry, but Moriarty frowned at him.

   “Glad to be of assistance.” Moriarty said, then promptly hung up. He looked to the ceiling, then to the open door of the factory, then to Moran with a shrug. “Go on. Use your rocks, then.”

   Moran placed all but the largest of the rocks in his pocket then, with a great deal more enthusiasm than one ought to have for such an activity, struck the man with such force his head partially caved in. The man made an unpleasant choking noise so, just to be sure, Moran used his free hand to crush his windpipe.

   All in all, he couldn’t say it had relieved each of his earlier frustrations, but he couldn’t say it hadn’t helped either.

   “Can’t kill him any more than that.” Moran said once the man’s body slowed it’s twitching. “But I can take his head if you want to be sure.”

   “We’ll be taking it either way.” Moriarty said happily as he waved his bone saw around. “Limbs in one piece, torso in two—down the middle so it’s easily recognised—and the head.”

   Moran nodded and snatched the saw from Moriarty before he took the wrong eye out.

   “And a sloppy pentagram on one piece.” Moriarty said. He hummed and rubbed his chin as if thinking, but Moran knew better than to believe the act. “On the torso, beneath the armpit. Make the cuts as clean as possible, and cut off the crack in his skull so it doesn’t mislead the Yard.”

    "We wouldn't want that." Moran said as he looked at Moriarty, who in turn nodded toward the body in the trunk.

   “Come on, then.” Moriarty grinned. “Chop, chop.”


End file.
